


And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by erebones



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is a man of dirt and sweat, of hard labor and hard winters. The others call him grim and dour-faced, not caring if he hears, but their loose words do not offend him. He is proud of his seriousness, the slow-burning sense of purpose that fills his blood and bones. He is proud of his heritage, desecrated though it may be; he is proud of the black arrow in his quiver, of his father’s careful tutelage with bow and bending sinew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [millionthline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millionthline/gifts).



From the north came a warrior,   
Bearing burdens dark and deep.   
I've a will and I've a wanting,   
And miles to go before I sleep. 

-Runrig,  _From the North_

* * *

 

He is a man of dirt and sweat, of hard labor and hard winters. The others call him grim and dour-faced, not caring if he hears, but their loose words do not offend him. He is proud of his seriousness, the slow-burning sense of purpose that fills his blood and bones. He is proud of his heritage, desecrated though it may be; he is proud of the black arrow in his quiver, of his father’s careful tutelage with bow and bending sinew.

For these: these are the things that had saved them. And when his bow sang, and the great fire-beast lay dead and cold and stifled beneath the water, he put aside his pride and the thoughts of royal blood. Such things are useless in the face of oncoming winter. Pride will not feed empty bellies. The bloodline of kings will not bandage wounds or purge lungs of lakewater, will not quiet the cries of children whose mothers and fathers were blazed to an ashy, watery death.

Their only hope, their only prayer, is to rely on the charity of their neighbors – and the possibility that Smaug has left his lair empty, free for the taking. The wealth of Erebor would be more than enough to restore the people under his care. It would rebuild a new city, in time, and plant new crops, and draw new trade into a corner of the world that has long suffered under the shadow of a sleeping tyrant.

But first things are first. Before gold can be sought, or mountains marched upon, there are shelters to be built and people to be fed. Bard wastes no time in sending messengers to the Elvenking’s halls, but finds that his request has been preceded. Sooner even than he hoped, a vanguard of elves poles up the river with supplies for feeding and for building; more, they promise, are on their way.

“We brought only the most needful of necessities, I fear,” says their leader, a sharp-eyed, fair-faced Elven maiden who looks more than strong enough to break the arm of any man who crosses her. She introduces herself as Tauriel, Captain of the Woodland Guard, and he knows her name if not her face. His daughters raved enough about her battle prowess to make him a little in awe of her presence. When Bard expresses (polite) surprise at her coming, she smiles with little humor. “More will come, Master Lakeman. More supplies, yes, and builders and healers as our alliance warrants. But so will come our infantry, marching up the banks of the River Running, and then they must have someone to lead them.”

Bard tips his head in acknowledgement. “You intend to seek the dragon’s treasure as well.”

Her full mouth purses in a moment’s fleeting displeasure, and he cannot say whether her words condone or condemn: “My king has long desired to retrieve the Elven treasures that the dwarves of Erebor have kept moldering in their abandoned halls.”

“Surely you don’t think they yet live. Not after Smaug’s awakening.”

“We hope for the best, of course,” Tauriel murmurs, a cool-eyed diplomat in hunter’s garb. “But, as you say, the dragon must have been routed out by someone. And he is not a foe to be taken lightly.”

“Nevertheless,” Bard says quietly.

“Nevertheless. I’ve heard many tales of your aim, Master Bowman.” The dark, smooth skin around her eyes crinkles faintly. “I look forward to witnessing it firsthand, if it is ever required.”

As it turns out, it is required. Reluctant as he is to abandon his family and the remainder of Laketown’s folk, Bard finds himself unanimously elected as official spokesperson and, eventually (he has no doubt, not after bringing down Smaug), Lord of… something. Lord of the Refugees, of the Displaced. What else there might be, he cannot tell. There is no Dale, there is no Esgaroth, there is no Laketown. It is all burned and buried, swallowed up by the icy depths that now serve for the grave of a monster.

He is pacing the camp at the foot of the Mountain late at night when the anxiety grows too much. He finds a watchman and slips him a coin to ride to the encampment on the other side of the lake and find out how his children fare. He takes the man’s place and stands guard, keen eyes staring out over a moon-drenched, desolate landscape.

When the Elves come, he hardly sees them until they’re almost upon him. They ride white horses that are silver in the dark of night, and they are armored in moonlight and armed with starlight, all clinging with shadows. Bard steps forward into the silver gleam, spear haft making a solid _thunk_ against the ground.

“Who passes?” he calls, for tradition’s sake.

Their leader dismounts and bares his head, helmet fitting neatly under one arm as he approaches. He is the fairest Elf Bard has ever set eye on, and he has seen plenty in his work as a bargeman. But the usual gay cast to the faces of woodelves is gone, replaced by a pale, stark grimness. The Elf’s jaw is square and taut, and his blue eyes gleam like chips of diamond in the starlight as he stands before Bard and extends his hand in deference to the mannerisms of Men.

“I am Legolas Thranduillion, from the Woodland Realm. I bring reinforcements for the battle to come.”

Bard’s eyes flicker over the array of mounted woodelves. “Does your father not ride with you?”

Legolas’ lips purse ever-so-slightly; for an Elf, it is as if he has written the thoughts of his heart onto his breast for all to see. “He trusts me to see to the affairs of the Mountain, Master…”

“Bard. Of…” he trails off. He can no longer say Laketown, can he?

But the Elf seems to know his name. “Bard the Bowman? He who brought down the Scourge?”

Bard bows his head slightly. “I am he, my lord.”

He assumes Legolas is going to make some further comment on his battle prowess and give thanks for the slaying of the dragon – something Bard himself still isn’t sure how he feels about – but instead the Elf’s stone façade cracks into a smile. “We have never met, but your children I know. Your youngest has excellent aim – it must be you she gets it from.”

Bard blinks. “You were there also? With the Lady Tauriel?”

Legolas bows his head. “I was.”

Bard cannot keep from gripping the Elf’s hand in both of his. “My hearty thanks to you. You defended my household when I could not – I am eternally in your debt.” Legolas seems uncomfortable, so he releases him and adds, “They are all I have in this world, Master Elf. Your service to me is greater than you know.”

“Have they no mother?” Legolas inquires gently. He doesn’t seem concerned that he is holding up the encampment of his troops, for which Bard is grateful.

“She died some years ago,” Bard admits stiffly. He doesn’t know why it seems necessary to confide all this to a stranger, but there is something in the bearing of the Elf prince that leaves room for intimacy. Shaking off the melancholy, Bard steps away. “The Lady Tauriel is already here with some of her garrison. You will be wanting to encamp with them, I presume.”

Legolas’ face retreats back into its shell, and Bard is at a loss. The closeness has melted away into the crisp winter air, leaving frosty politeness in its place, and he cannot find the spark of humanity in the Elf prince’s flinty gaze. “I thank you, Lord Bard,” he says quietly, brushing aside Bard’s protests at the title. He returns to his horse, and Bard watches the woodland folk file by like ghosts, silent and silver in the midnight hour.

* * *

 

The battle is long and bloody. At its peak, when Bard is leaning against a boulder half-blind with the blood dripping into his eye and his quiver empty of arrows, he gazes over the roiling slopes of the Mountain and feels his heart crack for the sake of his little ones. Bain, who is grown so tall, and whose surety and strength of self has grown with the rest of him. Sigrid, Bain’s twin, with her fierce protectiveness and the mantle of weariness she wears as she tries to fill the space her mother left in the household. Tilda, born too early, with her enormous blue eyes and her taste for tales of adventure and derring-do: a tiny fauntling-child who nearly fit into the palm of his hand at birth, and who now will not stop talking about elves and orcs and the great deeds she plans to do in battle, once she is tall enough.

 _I hope she lives to do those great deeds_ , Bard thinks desperately, but he is too honest with himself to pretend that this battle will end in anything but the slaughter of his people.

A figure drops neatly into the empty space beside him, and in spite of his weariness, Bard moves to defend himself. But it is only Legolas, more disheveled than Bard ever thought could be possible. There is a smudge of dirt on his forehead, and his hair is tangled and matted. A smear of blood paints his jaw black. He is holding out a quiver stuffed with arrows.

“Orcish,” the prince says levelly, as if in apology. “But they will serve.”

Bard takes the quiver and slings it over his shoulder with a nod of thanks. Then looks beyond the princeling’s shoulder to the squat, iron-patched goblin with its spear drawn back. Without thinking, Bard draws an arrow and lets fly right over Legolas’ shoulder. The crooked shaft nearly grazes the Elf’s cheek as it passes, but it sinks deeply between the goblin’s eyes; both goblin and spear fall to the bloodstained earth, perfectly harmless.

Legolas is staring at him, sharp blue eyes gone wide and liquid with shock. “Eru’s light,” he breathes. A flicker of a smile crosses his face. “Consider your debt paid in full.” Then he is gone, so quickly the negative imprint remains behind Bard’s eyes until he blinks it away.

They find each other again, before the battle is yet done. They are back to back, armed with spear and knife and sword salvaged from the battlefield, when the cry goes out. _The goblin king is dead, the lord of night has fallen._ All around them, the foe turns tail. They are left sagged against one another, spine to spine, bracing one another up like an island in the midst of chaos. Neither can seem to summon the power to move quite yet, but Legolas’ voice is perfectly clear in Bard’s ear.

“You fight well, for a human.”

Bard cracks a smile for the first time in long years, and the crust of blood on his face begins to crumble. “And you, Master Elf,” he returns. Their panting breaths are synchronized; he can feel the heaving of Legolas’ diaphragm against his own. He reaches back, and his battle-soiled hand is gripped in a slim white one. “Well fought indeed.”

* * *

 

There is so much sorrow in the wake of the Battle, and yet Bard can’t help but find peace and happiness regardless. Dale is to be rebuilt; those that stay to help have been given a temporary home in the halls of Erebor, and those that are too young or too weak to be of service are being taken to the Elvenking’s halls for the winter. Tilda puts up such a fuss, however, that Bard cannot bear to send her away. It wouldn’t be fair, not when Bain and Sigrid remain to do their part. Tauriel, who has volunteered part of her garrison to assist with interior work, promises she’ll keep an eye on her. Bard suspects this “keeping an eye” will involve more adventure stories and informal fighting lessons than he’d like, but he can’t find it in himself to complain when Tilda is so happy.

Sigrid also works inside the mountain. To Bard’s surprise, she volunteers for burial duty. It is grim work, and labor-intensive, but she does not complain and so Bard does not try to dissuade her. Bain’s talents, meanwhile, are needed in Dale. He signs up with an unlikely alliance of Dwarves and Elves to draw up blueprints for the rebuilding work. Bard remembers piles of scrap paper full of drawings and sketches, shoved away in corners when Bain grew old enough to help in the family trade, and is thankful that the spark of curiosity and artistry remains in a boy who had to grow up too fast.

Bard, meanwhile, works on removal crews when he can. Mostly he is required to do the work of running a township that is balanced on the edge between crumbling and thriving. He must jail the Master, of all people, on charges of obstruction to survival work, attempt theft, and constant whining. Alfrid somehow gets himself taken to the Elvenking’s halls with the rest, but on one of his many trips to the realm of the woodelves, Bard convinces him to come under Bard’s employment. The man is a wretched excuse for a decent human being, but he has many skills that are vital to Bard’s position: persuasion, knowledge of law and justice, and a talent for issues of economics and paperwork that Bard has never needed before.

And, most surprising of all, Bard has an unexpected ally and counselor in Legolas Thranduillion. The prince cannot always be present, but trips are made on both sides back and forth, and by the time the New Year is drawing on and Dale has been cleared of wreckage and scrubbed free of death and dragon fire, the two have formed a close friendship. Tilda adores Legolas almost as much as she adores Tauriel, and Bain has taken to him readily as any young boy will cleave to the age and experience of a grown warrior.

Sigrid is the only one of Bard’s household that is chilly with Legolas. To Bard it is a fancy, perhaps, misdirected into tension and quiet. But Legolas sees farther.

One evening after supper, to which Tauriel and Legolas were both invited (as they often are), Sigrid’s sole vigil over the dirty dishes is broken when the tall Elven prince ducks into the kitchen. Their home was one of the first places to be refinished in the city of Dale, and while it is imperfect and barren of much furniture, the kitchen is far larger than their old one, and it has become Sigrid’s sanctuary. Seeing Legolas out of the corner of her eye, Sigrid ducks her head and scrubs harder at the platter in her work-roughened hands, hoping he will take what he has come for – a water pitcher, perhaps, or more wine for the cups of her father and the Lady Tauriel – but he does not.

Instead he sits at the rough-cut kitchen table, still strewn with scraps from dinner preparation. Sigrid is determined not to acknowledge his presence, but he will not let her. She can feel his eyes on her as if they are a physical weight. At last she sets down the dish, letting it sink to the bottom of the soapy bucket. She does not turn around.

“What troubles you, Miss Sigrid?” Legolas inquires, sensing her defeat.

She stares at the oily bubbles on the water’s surface. “It is not my place to say, my lord.”

“And what is your place?”

There is a long silence, as if Sigrid herself does not know. At last, diplomatically: “I am my father’s daughter.”

Legolas can’t help but smile. “Indeed. I would not expect you to fear speaking your mind, child of Bard.”

“Forgive me, Master Elf,” she whispers. “I must finish my duties.”

“Is this how the Lakemen raise their daughters that they should fear to voice their own opinions? I would not have guessed at it, given the precocity of your sister.”

Sigrid slams a dish into the bucket and begins soaping vigorously. “Tilda does not know the hardships I have known, and I have worked hard to make it so. You cannot blame me, sir, if I am as grim as they say my father is. I am the only mother she has.”

“My lady…”

“Give me your queries, if you must,” Sigrid interrupts wearily, her burst of furious energy melting away as quickly as it had come. “I will answer as honestly as I know how.”

Legolas hesitates only a moment. “I would know what I might do to earn your favor, lady.”

Sigrid’s laugh is short and bitter. “What favors do I owe you, Master Elf?” She draws her hands from the soapy water and turns, fingers wet and red and wrinkled where they are braced upon her hips. Her face is thinner than when Legolas had first beheld it, and her eyes are shadowed; hers is the face of a woman who has seen far more death and destruction and hunger than any young girl ought. “I see what is happening in my father’s heart,” she whispers. “He is drawn to you like a moth to the flame – and who can blame him? You are tall and strong, a warrior even among your own kind, a prince. And yet you have a gentle heart, a goodness about you that perhaps your father lacks. No, let me finish.”

She curls her fingers into her apron and sinks into the chair opposite him. “Tilda does not remember my mother. The birth came on too early, and it killed her. I was young, but I remember it. The house was fever-hot to keep my mother warm, and she slept without waking, as the dead do. I would crawl up and sleep with her sometimes, to feel her heartbeat. And then, a week later, she died without ever having laid eyes on the child.

“I named her. Matilda, after our great-great grandmother, the wife of Girion, famous for her brave deeds at the coming of the dragon. I am her mother, do you see? The mother of my own siblings, because my father was too – too grief-stricken, too busy feeding us to be a father.” Her cheeks are wet. She covers her mouth with her hand briefly before continuing. “I held our family together, Master Elf, and now you come to take my father’s heart away and where will we be? You will not be his wife – you cannot be. You cannot be the mother Tilda needs, you cannot be the housekeeper, the cook, the maid, the _drudge_.”

Her face crumples, and when she bows her head to weep silently into her apron, Legolas is perfectly still. At last he reaches out, rests a warm hand upon her shoulder. She allows it. When she can speak again, she blots her face dry and looks evenly at him.

“I do not want to hate you, Legolas. But I see how it will be, if he falls in love with you, and you with him. And I want no part of it.”

This time, when Sigrid returns to the dishes, Legolas leaves her be.

* * *

 

It is snowing heavily, and spring is almost upon them. Bard and Legolas are traveling together along the River Running, but the ice is building up faster than the barge can break through.

“This is impossible,” Legolas calls at last. He knows that he could easily walk back to the Elvenking’s halls, but his friend is red-faced and red-handed with cold, shivering violently even under his thick lambskin parka. “We should find shelter.”

“There is a… a woodsman’s hut along here. Just a few minutes’ walk,” Bard returns. He leans against the mast and peers through the whirling snow. Legolas is wreathed in white – the thick flakes cling to his blond hair and the dark spikes of his lashes, framing sapphire eyes in pure silver. The very tip of his nose is red, but that is the only concession given to the temperature and the howling wind.

“Then let us go.” Legolas double-checks the waterproof satchel containing the important documents they are ferrying to Erebor and pulls his hood closer around his face. “Lead on, before it grows too deep to walk.”

Together they tie the barge up to the bank and begin the trek. Even in the blinding snow, Bard’s memory and sense of direction prove true: a short slog from the river, a small but stoutly-built cabin stands in the faint protection of two large trees, its roof capped in several inches of snow. Bard raps hard on the door, but it lists open to reveal a single, empty room, leaves strewn on the floor and the remains of old fires in the grate.

“Sparse commons, I fear,” he warns as he holds the door wide.

Legolas ducks in and glances around. “Sparse indeed. But we will make do.”

Between them, they start a fire in the grate with deadfall salvaged from beneath the snow, and lay out their wet clothes to dry. Such a small space is quickly heated, and Bard is soon warm enough to strip down to his longjohns, leaving his hardy torso bare and gleaming slightly in the firelight. He makes a long pile of his dry things and lays down on his back, head to the fire, and looks to where Legolas lingers in the corner, inspecting his bowstring.

“Will you not lie down?”

Legolas stares at him with his brilliant blue eyes for a few moments, long enough that Bard’s skin is starting to crawl with the scrutiny. But at last he comes forward, still mostly dressed, and sits cross-legged in front of the fire. Bard blinks at him.

“You must be at least damp. I did not think Elvish skill was such that they remain perfectly dry at all times even in the midst of a blizzard.”

Legolas huffs a short laugh. “Then you have little faith indeed.” Even so, he condescends to loosen the ties of his tunic and let it lie open over the V of his undershirt, baring throat and chest to the fire’s warmth. His hair is damp, at least, and faintly steaming. Under Bard’s curious eyes, he unbinds the braids and lets his hair fall loose around his face in soft white-gold waves.

“How is it done?” Bard murmured.

“The braids?”

“No. The…” He waves a helpless hand. “The beauty. It… doesn’t seem possible.”

“Not for a Man, perhaps.” Legolas seems to reconsider this as soon as he says it, and glances over at Bard stretched out on his coat and tunic. “Although you seems to disprove the Elvish tales that Men are horrible to look upon.”

“Do I?” A light twinkles in his dark eyes. Every muscle feels lax and warm, and somehow Bard is not afraid to let one hand fall lazily against the flat plane of his stomach. Legolas’ sharp eyes follow it and fall away again.

“You are prone to dust and dirt like any other of your kind,” he says, striving for indifference. Then, almost an afterthought: “But I have grown accustomed to it.”

“What _do_ you find attractive in someone?” Bard wonders aloud. “Elves, I mean.”

“Hair,” Legolas blurts, eyes fastened on the dark patch curling over Bard’s breastbone. “The longer the better.” He doesn’t flush, exactly, but there is something in his posture that suggests embarrassment.

“Tauriel’s hair is quite long,” Bard notes quietly.

“Also spirit,” Legolas says without responding. “Sometimes, it doesn’t matter what one looks like, or what station in life – there is a connection that occurs, so strong it cannot be mistaken for any other thing. A tie between souls.”

Bard watches his face, sitting up slowly. “Have you ever experienced such a thing?’

“I believe so.” A pause. “It only remains to be found whether the connection is returned.”

The silence between them is heavy and unbearable. At last Bard draws breath and whispers, “If you’re asking, the answer is yes.”

Legolas closes his eyes and they lean into one another. Bard hovers, uncertain, letting his nose brush the aristocratic curve of Legolas’ cheek. The Elf turns his face slightly, until they breathe in one another’s air. “Yes.”

Bard rests his hand around the back of Legolas’ neck, tangling his fingers in the strands of his hair as he draws Legolas to him. Their mouths fit together hotly, smooth against rough, wide against thin. Bard kisses his mouth open and licks inside, and Legolas’ fingers tremble where they clutch at Bard’s shoulder.

Legolas draws back at last to find his tunic off and his shirt hanging from his shoulders by a few pearl buttons. Bard’s broad hand is spread in the center of his chest, but he brings his own hand up to curl around his wrist, preventative. “This… my friend, we cannot – I cannot be what you need.” He thinks of Sigrid, and feels his frosty heart crack. “I cannot be what your family needs.”

Bard lets his forehead rest against his friend’s. “Perhaps not. But…” He kisses him quickly, softly. “Perhaps I don’t need you to be anything. Perhaps there is only this, only now. Perhaps I will never have you again, but perhaps the memory of this will be enough to sustain me.”

His hand slides lower, and this time Legolas does not stop him.

**Author's Note:**

> A Christmas gift requested nearly a year ago by the wonderful dilfbard/millionthline/Fionn! I finally got around to it! I didn't expect the angst, Sigrid just sort of happened. 
> 
> This doesn't really affect the story, but Tauriel here is a woc, a la many pre-DOS headcanons on tumblr, and Thranduil is blind, also a la many tumblr headcanons; that's why Legolas comes in his stead. I may write more in this verse at some point, because I can't just leave everything hanging! :)
> 
> Merry Christmas, Fionn! You're awesome!


End file.
